


monte carlo integration

by charizona



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Russian Roulette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 09:34:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2687858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charizona/pseuds/charizona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shaw dares her without saying a word, because she’ll be damned if she makes the first move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	monte carlo integration

She wakes up in the increasingly familiar apartment, breathing hard, a layer of sweat on her chest. She can’t remember what she had been dreaming about, but she doesn’t recall it being unsettling, and yet here she is, not asleep.

She stretches and turns over, tugging a thin sheet over her shoulder. A moment later, she hears the sound of the apartment’s buzzer and decides that’s why she woke up in the first place. Her hand slides to the nightstand beside the bed and pulls open the drawer, fingers curling around the cold metal sitting inside.

She’s half awake as she walks to the speaker on the wall, located in the other room. She eyes the front door warily, takes a deep breath as her finger blindly feels for the button. She says, “This had better be good.”

“Sleeping well, Sameen?” Root’s voice filters through and Sameen Shaw can practically hear the smile in her voice.

“Root,” Shaw says, simplicity at its finest. Irritation laces the single syllable like a poison. She doesn’t move her hand to let the other woman up to the apartment.

“It’s Madison Sanders, actually,” Root croons back and Shaw can picture her standing against the wall outside. “And,” Root continues, “she’s in need of some assistance. The manicure that her paycheck paid for is exquisite.”

“What kind of assistance?” Shaw asks, but she’s already running through possible plans in her mind.

“Y’know,” Root says, as if she’s already explained everything, “the muscly kind.”

Shaw’s head falls against the wall when her eyes stray toward the clock above the oven. “At three in the morning?”

“The best things happen before the sun rises,” Root tells her. “I’ll be waiting in a car outside.”

Shaw is fully awake now, moving quickly to get dressed. She’s used to not asking questions, but there are still quite a few running through her head. She slips into her jeans and pulls on a jacket, careful to conceal a gun into the waistband of her pants in the small of her back, as well as keeping the one she’d grabbed from her nightstand.

She emerges onto the street and rolls her eyes when a car flashes its lights at her. She breathes in the night air, making her way over to the shiny, black car sitting in the shadow of the streetlight. Root’s in the driver’s seat and Shaw’s already uneasy.

“Where are we going?” she asks, able to hear her own teeth fall together again when Root doesn’t answer immediately.

Root shrugs, staring ahead. “I’m not sure yet.”

They sit. “So we’re just supposed to sit here?” Shaw asks skeptically. She’s thinking about her warm bed sheets and the security of sleep.

Root doesn’t say a word, her hand drifting up to her ear. Shaw purses her lips, shifting in her seat as she crosses her arms to wait. Nodding to herself, Root places her hands around the wheel. She breathes and a cloud of cold air comes out from between her teeth, right before she says, “She needs you to stand in the middle of the street and shoot at the next car that comes toward you. Don’t kill the driver.”

Shaw huffs, but gets out regardless. She’s stopped when Root says, “Wait,” and she looks back into the car to find Root with a faraway look in her eyes. She refocuses and meets Shaw’s eyes. “Five shots, toward the east. I’ll meet with you in an hour and seven minutes.”

“Right,” Shaw says, getting out. She goes to stand right where Root had told her to, hand wrapped around her gun. She starts to wait and doesn’t have to wait long; a car turns the corner 100 yards down the street and comes right for her, tires screeching. She takes a careful aim and fires five times and not a shot more. The car swerves and comes to a stop ten feet from her.

A man gets out and hides behind his door. Shaw glances back toward the car she’d met Root in, but the driver’s seat is empty. She stalks forward toward the door and the man points a gun at her, tells her, “Not a step closer.”

She does what he says and watches him stand up. He approaches her cautiously as she appraises her handy work: all five shots went into the windshield, but he must’ve gotten down after the first one. He reaches for her hands and she whirls, punching him in the gut.

That’s when two from the side grab her, each holding one of her arms. She won’t admit out loud that she hadn’t noticed them, but she really hadn’t. She really needs to work on some skills with Reese. She decides not to fight back, remembering Root’s words, and lets her hands be zip-tied behind her back. They stuff her in the back seat and put a hood over her head and drive away, Shaw sitting uncomfortably in the back.

Idly, she wonders how much time has passed.

 

.

 

The hood is taken off roughly some time later and Shaw finds herself in a bare room, not unlike an interrogation room, save for the exception of a window. The man who’d taken off her hood throws it to the side and leers at her, finger twitching near the trigger of his gun dangerously, but she sits, waiting. She presses against the zip-ties and rocks slightly in the chair, testing. Cold metal presses against her forehead and Shaw stares her captor in the eye.

“Who are you working for,” he spits, the gun pressing into her skin.

She doesn’t say a word. Instead, someone speaks for her, a voice breezily speaking through a speaker. “Let me,” a woman says, and Shaw instantly recognizes the voice as belonging to Root.

She lilts into the room, brandishing a revolver in her hand. She’s grinning, holding the door open for the man who currently looks like he’d like to shoot Shaw several times over.

Root pouts when he doesn’t move. “Come on, Chekov,” she purrs, “let me _prove myself_.” She walks over to him and she’s wearing heels now, Shaw notices, the sound of them dominating the room. She puts a hand on his upper arm and tilts her head to the side. “Ruletka,” Root says, making him notice the gun. “It never fails.”

He relents, brushing past her with a grunt and muttering something about going to talk to the boss. Root doesn’t watch him go, instead gazes down at Shaw before letting her eyes drift down to a watch on her wrist. She shows Shaw the stopwatch. “Hour seven.”

Shaw presses her lips together.

“Now,” Root says, holding the revolver with two hands. It’s a nice one, Shaw notices, shiny and new. She supposes that Root must’ve just gotten it -- “my boss isn’t very happy with your attempt on his men.” She pushes the cylinder out. “We could’ve lost a very valuable asset to… who?” She takes a moment to reach into her pocket, flashing Shaw an almost apologetic smile. “That’s what we want to know,” she says quietly.

“I’m not telling you anything,” Shaw growls, thinking that she sounds pretty convincing.

Root quirks an eyebrow, the corner of her lip turning upwards, as if she hadn’t expected that Shaw would say anything back. “Well,” she says, pointedly showing Shaw a small bullet. She places the single round into the revolver, then spins the cylinder, “we can do this the easy way or the hard way.” She snaps the cylinder back into place. “You just saw, there are five empty rounds,” she explains. “And one… not so empty.”

Shaw rolls her neck. “It’s a party, then.”

“I’m so glad you agree,” Root breathes, stepping toward Shaw. Shaw stiffens as the gun comes up to her head, Root pressing it into the space underneath her ear. Root leans into Shaw’s space, tilting her head. “Who do you work for?”

“When did you eat last?” Shaw asks instead, her expression decidedly neutral. “Because your breath is really ruining the atmosphere in here.”

_Click_. Shaw tries her hardest not to flinch.

“One out of five,” Root whispers, glancing at the gun. “Your odds are lowering and your sense of humor isn’t really doing it for me.”

Shaw doesn’t let her eyes leave Root’s. She stays silent.

“What’s your name,” Root asks this time. The gun isn’t as cold as it was originally on Shaw’s neck.

Shaw doesn’t speak. Root stares at her, hard, and there’s almost a battle of wills between the two of them. She wishes, not for the first time, to know what’s going on in Root’s head, if only for a moment, deciding that it would be helpful in times like this, where the telepathy is turning into radio silence.

_Click_. Shaw’s eyes flutter shut as Root lets out a laugh.

The sound of Root’s laughter reminds Shaw of a different time, one filled with a different Root, when Root still had a part of Samantha Groves within her. Samantha Groves had kidnapped Harold and Shaw isn’t sure what she’s doing now.

“Who are you working for?” Root asks again. “This will only get harder.”

Shaw doesn’t know what she’s supposed to say, if she’s supposed to say anything. She doesn’t even know if there’s even a bullet in that gun. All she does know is that her heart is beating faster than it had in a long while and she’s not even running.

_Click_.

Shaw doesn’t even have time to flinch before Root brings a hand up to her neck, gripping it, digging a thumb into the flesh. She stiffens underneath the pressure. “Answer the question,” Root urges, grinding out the words as though each syllable physically hurts her.

“I don’t think this is working,” a voice says over the intercom.

“It’s working,” Root says, her eyes never leaving Shaw’s. Her gun hand falls to her side. “Are you willing to die,” she asks, “to protect the name of your boss? A boss that won’t even remember _your_ name when we put your body on his doorstep?”

“So I’m going to die anyway,” Shaw says, nodding her head. “I would die before I’d tell you anything.”

“So you will,” Root says, just before her arm comes up and she aims the gun. She pulls the trigger and --

_Click_.

“That’s it --” the man says, bursting into the room. Root turns the gun on him and pulls the trigger a sixth time and this time, the bullet erupts from the barrel, effectively burying itself in the man’s shoulder. Root turns to Shaw, hair flying over her shoulder, and walks around to the other side of her chair, pulling a knife out of her pocket and cutting Shaw loose.

“Grab his gun,” Root tells her. “I’ll have to make do with one for now.”

“Let me guess,” Shaw says, hoping that Root doesn’t notice the way her hands are shaking. She isn’t thinking about that sixth shot, nor the way Root had so carelessly aimed at Shaw’s chest for the fifth one, “that wasn’t Madison Sanders.”

Root gives her a withering look and leads the way out of the door. They slink down the hallways and find themselves outside of a room with a crack of light filtering its way out from underneath it. Root puts a finger to her lips before saying quietly, “Follow me in one minute,” and then she disappears inside.

Shaw counts in her head in increments of ten. She hits ten for the sixth time and pushes the door open and starts shooting, hitting knees and shoulders, joined by Root a moment later. They stand there when they’re done, listening to the chorus of men groaning and it sounds like victory.

Shaw notices something in Root’s hand. “What’s that?”

“Blackmail material,” Root replies. “We need to get out of here. She says we’re several minutes away from this warehouse being blown to smithereens.”

Shaw nods, wondering why Root had her come in the first place. She follows anyway, mostly because Root knows the way out and Shaw had been lead inside with a hood, and when they’re outside, there’s a car waiting for them. Root gets in the passenger side and lets Shaw drive.

“Why did you need me to come?” she asks, glancing in the side mirror repeatedly to check on the warehouse behind them.

Root stops her perusing of the papers she had acquired and looks at her. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Shaw nods, avoiding Root’s gaze. She can feel Root’s eyes on her like a tight dress, clinging in all the wrong places. She doesn’t want to ask about what happened in that room, but she also _does_ because she’s tired of not asking and not knowing. She’s tired of Root not telling her things.

She finally does, asking, “Did the machine tell you where the bullet was in the cylinder?”

“Did you trust me?” Root counters.

“That doesn’t matter,” Shaw says. “What matters is if there was an actual risk of me dying.”

“There’s always a risk,” Root points out, “whether it’s from me or someone else.”

“Stop avoiding the question.”

Root looks out the passenger side window. “She told me where the bullet was.”

Shaw doesn’t say anything else and continues driving. Ten minutes later, she realizes that she doesn’t have a destination, that she’s only been driving away from the warehouse. Root tells her to drive back to her own apartment and Shaw does, just as she notices the sun coming over the horizon in the east. They sit in comfortable silence and Shaw pretends that she’s not gripping the steering wheel too hard.

Shaw parks in the same spot Root had been waiting for her when she came down several hours earlier. She slides the keys out of the ignition and hands them over, pressing her lips together when Root brushes her fingers.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in for a cup of coffee?” Root tries, smirking at her from across the divider.

Shaw thinks about coffee and decides that it wouldn’t hurt. She’s not about to give it to Root easily, though. “Doesn’t the machine have something reckless and stupid lined up for you?”

“Not currently, no,” Root chirps, and Shaw guesses that it was worth a shot.

Shaw just shakes her head and gestures for Root to come along with her, getting out of the car. They walk to the building and she hides the keypad from Root’s view, even though she knows she could find out what the code is if she wanted to.

She feels Root right behind her; if she were any closer, Shaw is sure that she would feel Root’s breath on her neck. Root says, “She’s been quiet lately.”

If Shaw hadn’t been so hypersensitive to Root’s every movement, she might’ve felt something for the way Root said those words. Instead, she just keeps moving and leads the way to her alias’ apartment and unlocks the door. She walks to the kitchen and leaves it entirely up to Root whether she follows or not, hearing the click of the front door and soon Root’s soft footfalls on the hardwood.

“How would you like your coffee?” Shaw asks, only because she doesn’t want this to go where she thinks it’s going to go.

Root sidles up next to her and spins the small carousel that holds the different flavors. “I’m not sure yet,” she says, and Shaw realizes that the phrase is something that she says a lot, in different circumstances.

Root is too close. Shaw takes a deep breath, a mistake, because she only breathes in the scent of Root’s shampoo, and moves away. “Who were those guys?”

“Russians,” Root answers, leaning back against the counter.

“And why did you need me,” Shaw continues as she makes two cups, not really caring what flavoring goes into which.

“Like I said,” Root explains, “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Yeah.” Shaw nods to herself. She supposes that she should be used to the lack of answers by now, used to the lack of sense that Root makes.

Root presses against her from behind and reaches around her to grab a mug and Shaw stiffens. “Sorry,” Root breathes, though she doesn’t sound like it.

Her hand is an inch away from the cup when Shaw thinks _Fine_ and turns around. Root meets her eyes for a moment before her eyes drop down to Shaw’s lips. Shaw dares her without saying a word, because she’ll be damned if she makes the first move. That would be admitting that there’s something there, something brewing besides the coffee on the counter behind her, and that would be admitting defeat.

“Can I help you with something?” Root murmurs, still pressed against Shaw like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Is that to say that,” Shaw breathes, fully and completely aware that Root’s lips are barely inches away, “you need me?”

“In the lightest sense of the word,” Root says softly, rolling her hips as she continues reaching around Shaw. Her fingers close around the coffee mug and she takes a step back, putting a considerable, yet moderate distance between them. She takes a sip. “This is very good.”

Shaw huffs when Root turns around and takes her mug to the other side of the counter. She settles opposite. They sit there in comfortable silence and drink their coffee, Shaw attempting to ignore the increasing ache in her gut that grows more intense every time she sneaks a look towards Root, who is, conveniently, spaced out and staring at nothing in particular.

Root finished her coffee and sidles around the counter once again to set the empty mug into the sink. She stands next to Shaw and lets her hands fall to her side. “I’ll call you,” she says cheekily before walking toward the front door.

“Root -- wait.”

She stills, but doesn’t turn around.

Shaw sets her mug on the counter and lets her hand fall onto her thigh. “I think you forgot something.”

Root turns, quirking an eyebrow in Shaw’s direction. “Did I?”

Shaw nods, standing to go grab Root’s coat from the coat hanger. “You forgot to thank me for saving your ass.”

She holds the coat out for Root to grab and doesn’t let her face reveal any feelings towards the completely irritated eye roll that Root gives her in return. Root takes the coat, her fingers brushing Shaw’s. “Thank you,” she says, and before Shaw realizes it, she grabs Shaw’s hand and tugs her the last few inches, planting a hard kiss on Shaw’s lips.

It’s different than anything they’ve shared before. Before, it’s been rushed and nighttime and now, in pure daylight, Shaw feels almost ashamed when she reaches for Root’s arm when Root turns to go. She pulls Root back and this time, she kisses her, because the playing field has been leveled thus far, a hand finding the back of Root’s neck and pulling her down so she’s practically even with Shaw’s height.

She’s never been fond of standing on her toes.

Root doesn’t mind, melting into Shaw and dropping the coat to the side to free her other hand, curling her fingers into Shaw’s hair, hastily tugging out Shaw’s ponytail.

“Ow,” Shaw complains into her lips when she hits a nasty snag of tangled hair.

“Says the operative that has performed surgery on herself unanesthetized,” Root murmurs back, receiving only an unamused grunt in response. She pulls the hair tie out of Shaw’s hair, softer this time, and runs her fingers through it. Shaw glares at her. Root only smiles and says, “You should wear it down more often.”

“I do,” Shaw argues before she kisses Root again. Faster, teeth pulling on lips and biting, Root can’t help the small sound that escapes from within her chest. Shaw’s nails dig into the skin on the back of her neck and she presses against Shaw, craving as much contact as possible. She flattens her hands on Shaw’s shoulders, molding against Shaw’s collarbones.

“Too many clothes,” Root says, her own voice sounding so foreign to herself that she immediately hopes that it’s lost in the sounds of kissing and heavy breathing. It’s not, but Shaw only nods and complies, reaching for her own shirt and pulling it over her head. Root presses her hands against Shaw’s skin, fingers running over scars as Shaw’s lips find her jaw, the corner of her mouth.

Suddenly, Root’s back hits the wall and Shaw hits her, too, pushing flush against her. She kisses back when Shaw’s lips find hers, Root’s hips rolling up without thought with she feels Shaw’s hand slide down her back and find her ass. Shaw makes a sound, a sound that Root would tease her for in any other situation, but Root only swallows it as she kisses Shaw harder.

Shaw’s hand slips under Root’s thigh and pulls it up, Root complying and wrapping her leg around Shaw’s waist. Shaw pulls back, her eyes almost black. “Bedroom,” she says, and Root nods with her bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

She’s not expecting Shaw’s other hand to tuck itself underneath her other thigh, but as soon as she does, Shaw lifts her up and Root subconsciously wraps tighter around Shaw, her legs around Shaw’s waist and her arms around Shaw’s shoulders. Shaw kisses her and takes an almost unsteady step toward the bedroom, careful to keep a tight hold on Root. Root weaves the fingers of one hands through Shaw’s hair and digs her nails into Shaw’s scalp when Shaw has to stop, press Root against a wall, and readjust her hold.

Shaw finally makes it to the bedroom and essentially dumps Root onto the bed. Root bounces, a hiccup escaping her on impact. Shaw’s on her instantly, hovering over her with an almost predatory gaze as she presses lips against Root’s throat and leaves her mark. Root squirms, hands finding the hem of Shaw’s jeans and pulling, regretting it when Shaw’s hips roll into her own, ache flaring between her legs.

“Sameen,” Root groans, just as Shaw delivers a particularly sharp bite to her pulse point. Shaw pulls back and looks down at Root.

Root’s hands find the back of her neck and drag her down, kissing her blindly, teeth clacking together harshly. She flips them recklessly and she hears Shaw groan approvingly when Root straddles her hips, sitting up above Shaw and immediately pulling her own shirt off. Shaw sits up and she kisses Root, hands reaching around and undoing Root’s bra’s clasp, before she aggressively throws the garment to the side. Her hands replace where the garment had been, palming Root’s breasts.

Root archs into the touch, goosebumps coating her skin in the chilly air. Shaw pinches a nipple and Root hisses, nails leaving red, angry marks on Shaw’s skin. She’s breathing hard, hands reaching between the two of them as she fumbles with her own jean buttons, undoing them with frantically shaking hands. Shaw’s hands mold around Root’s ribs and her fingers dig into the spaces between the bones.

Root loses patience, grabbing one of Shaw’s hands and guiding her where she needs her, pushing it between denim and the damp cotton of her underwear. Shaw’s forehead falls against Root’s shoulder and she presses on Root’s clit through the fabric; it takes every ounce of control Root has not to scream.

She claws at Shaw instead and vaguely wonders how long these marks will last, how long Shaw will avoid wearing tank tops when she’s around Reese and Finch.

Shaw presses harder and Root finds herself digging her hips toward Shaw’s hand, cursing the choice of underwear for the occasion. “Sameen,” she breathes, the name coming out more of a pant than anything. She says it pointedly, hoping that Shaw gets the message.

“The way,” Shaw mumbles into her collarbone, applying more distracting pressure, “that you say my name is --”

“Hot?” Root tries, trying a different angle with her hips.

“I was going to say ‘needy’,” Shaw says instead, and Root would be annoyed, if not for the way that Shaw pushes aside the useless underwear for favor of sliding inside of Root with two fingers. She goes painfully slow, but the penetration is all Root needs, the choked gasp coming from deep within her chest as she grinds her hips desperately against Shaw’s hand.

Shaw pushes a third finger inside of her and starts up a rhythm, confined by the limited access that the jeans allow, but it works, what with Root’s help and Shaw’s determination. Shaw’s own ache is building, electricity bursting through her lower stomach every time Root’s hips grind against her own. And Root is so painfully soaked and flushed and Shaw thinks that she herself is the one that needs this, the one that craves this, as Root climbs toward the edge with only Shaw’s hand to guide her.

Shaw shifts so her palm brushes against Root’s clit with the motions and slows, pressing into Root as far as she can manage. It only takes three, four more strokes and Root is tumbling, a strangled moan falling from her lips and onto Shaw’s shining skin as she comes. She’s incoherent, the sounds bubbling from her lips not resembling any words that Shaw is familiar with, but Shaw’s used to this part.

She’s used to leaving soon after.

Somehow, she can tell that this time it’ll be different. Especially with Root still on top of her and no easy means of escape, Shaw is left to her own thoughts as Root breathes heavily. Root comes to slowly, her lips working on Shaw’s collarbone.

“Root,” Shaw says quietly, her words just hard enough to be a warning.

Root stops and leans against her. Shaw falls back on the bed and Root falls with her, slipping a thigh between Shaw’s legs. “Don’t make me tie you down,” Root says and Shaw can tell that she’s not joking.

“I don’t do this.”

“Do it with me,” Root suggests, almost pleads, and she presses her slick body against Shaw’s, adding pressure between Shaw’s legs as she shifts her thigh. “You can’t run out of your own apartment.”

Shaw doesn’t say anything, instead props herself up on her elbows and attempts to maneuver herself out of her bra. She gets it off easily enough and finds Root grinning at her widely before Root kisses her fully, passionately, tongue parting Shaw’s lips as she pushes Shaw back onto the bed. This is the part that Shaw’s not used to, as Root grabs her wrists and pins them above her head.

Root pulls away, their lips separating with a _smack_ and she kisses her way down Shaw’s body, tongue swirling around Shaw’s nipples, erect in the circumstances. Shaw is tension and tries to relax, but she finds it increasingly difficult as Root’s tongue sears a path of heat just below her navel. Root hastily unbuttons Shaw’s jeans and slides down Shaw’s legs to pull them off and Shaw feels, quite literally, naked.

Root spreads her thighs with a smirk on her face, kissing her way up from the inside of Shaw’s knee. She bites Shaw’s inner thigh, reveling in the way the muscle clenches. She tugs Shaw’s underwear out of the way and doesn’t waste another second teasing Shaw, knowing how she could lose the opportunity at any second. Her lips find Shaw’s clit and she swirls her tongue around the sensitive bundle of nerves, finding herself holding down Shaw’s knees as Shaw’s hips threaten to leave the bed.

Root brings a hand up and pushes a finger inside, tasting Shaw as she pushes in and out. Shaw’s hands twist in the sheets above her before she gives up, a hand finding Root’s hair and gripping tightly. It only takes a minute before Shaw is close, Root slipping a second finger inside as she pushes harder and faster.

“Fuck,” Shaw groans, her chest heaving as she comes. Her hips arch of their own volition and Root cannot hold them down this time. She kisses her way up Shaw’s sweaty body and removes her fingers, tracing a wet line across Shaw’s navel, sternum, until her fingers slip into her mouth.

When Shaw kisses her, she tastes herself on Root’s lips.

Root curls up against her and traces absentminded circles on Shaw’s skin. Light filters in the bedroom in ways that Root hadn’t noticed before and she stares at the shadows that pepper their way across Shaw’s body.

Shaw sighs. “I don’t do cuddling.”

“Then it’s a good thing She has something for me to attend to,” Root says, smiling. She slips out of the bed and into her clothes just as fast, leaving Shaw without so much as a goodbye.

Shaw hears the front door close and gets up, stripping the bed so she can wash the sheets.

**Author's Note:**

> First Person of Interest fic! I blame one of my good friends entirely -- a month ago I didn't know which one was Root and which one was Shaw in a gifset... and now... Anyway. This fic was sparked entirely from a desire to write them playing russian roulette. So _that's _fun.__
> 
> __Kudos and comments are always appreciated -- Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!_ _


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